Speak, Memory

You know what I’m tired of? People being so down on themselves for not remembering things. Doesn’t it seem like everyone you know over a certain age is spending way too much time saying, “Dammit, I just saw that movie yesterday, and I can’t remember what it’s called. This is terrible.” That’s so negative. Quitcherbellyachin’! Celebrate what you do remember!

For example, I was in Duane Reade the other day, forgetting what I was there for, and, yes, getting bummed out about it. Then I remembered that I was there for some kind of hair product, only I couldn’t remember what it was. Then I remembered that it was the stuff that comes in a bottle that you wash your hair with, but I couldn’t remember what it’s called, so I knew I wouldn’t be able to ask any of the employees to help me find it. Just as I was about to throw myself a great big pity party there in the hair-care aisle, my eye caught a display of those fake tortoiseshell headbands. And my brain said, “Lynne Tryforos.”

What the—?! I thought. And then I decided to turn things around—to just enjoy the moment, to take pleasure in the workings of my brain. I had a fun time right there in Duane Reade—it was like playing a game—trying to put together why this name had popped into my head. It came to me: Lynne Tryforos was the secretary and girlfriend of the Scarsdale Diet doctor, and the reason that Jean Harris, who was also his girlfriend and had preceded Lynne Tryforos, shot him. Jean Harris wore that same kind of headband!

I think it’s so neat that my brain remembered that. Why did it, when the names of so many people I actually know, and sometimes my own phone number, are lost to me? Who can say? The brain is a mystery, a wonderful, labyrinth-like mystery.

I say let’s put these random bits of information to use, to help us. For instance, when the conversation turns to Jean Harris and the Scarsdale Diet doctor, and somebody asks, “Why did she shoot him again?” and you pipe up, “Lynne Tryforos,” people who have just met you will think you remember other things as well, lots of other things, when in fact you could not tell them what you had for breakfast. They’ll think you’re smart, which is great, since you never know these days when you’ll be fired from your job and you might need one of these people to recommend you for a new job. They don’t need to know that in fact, with your antique, outmoded “skill set,” you would be lucky to find employment as a lunchroom lady.

Granted, it is not too often that the whole Scarsdale Diet-doctor thing comes up in conversation. You will just have to cleverly steer it in that direction, like so:

YOU: “Headmistress.” Now that’s a word you don’t hear too much anymore.

OTHER PERSON: That is so true!

YOU: I think the last time I heard it was in reference to Jean Harris.

OTHER PERSON: Jean Harris. Was she the lady who shot the diet doctor?

YOU: Exactly. Because he was having an affair with his secretary, Lynne Tryforos.

OTHER PERSON: Get out of town! Good God, how do you remember that? You’re amazing!

YOU: I don’t know about that, but I do seem to be remembering more things as I get older. I feel sharper than ever, and totally up for new challenges. In fact, if you hear of any jobs, maybe you’d suggest me.

OTHER PERSON: That I will!

Also, once we stop thinking of these “meaningless” bits of information that come to us out of the blue as annoying and disconcerting, we can start having fun with them, folding them into our social discourse like frothy egg whites:

YOU: Don’t you remember the strangest things sometimes?

OTHER PERSON: I’ll say. The other day, I was thinking about my fifth-grade teacher, Hyla Jones, and how odd it was that I remembered her first name when I don’t remember the first names of the many dozens of other teachers I had over the years. I mean, Hyla is an unusual name, but really, I’m sure some of my other teachers had unusual names.

YOU: That’s so fascinating! Speaking of elementary school, the other day I remembered the lunch box my friend Dana Cole had in the third grade. It was shaped like a school bus, and it had all the Disney characters waving out of the windows of the bus. Before I saw hers, I really liked my lunch box, which was plaid, but after I saw hers I just wanted hers.

OTHER PERSON: That’s such a compelling story. Poignant, even.

YOU: You know what else I remember? Almost the entire cast of “Where the Boys Are”: Dolores Hart; George Hamilton; Frank Gorshin—in a pair of funny glasses!—Jim Hutton; Connie Francis, who also sang the title song; Yvette Mimieux; Paula Prentiss; and Dick Benjamin.

OTHER PERSON: Outstanding! I forgot about Dolores Hart. I thought that was Mitzi Gaynor.

YOU: Mitzi Gaynor?!? No way! She was in “South Pacific.”

OTHER PERSON: Of course! I remember all the words to “I’m Gonna Wash That Man Right Outta My Hair.”

YOU: Me, too!

OTHER PERSON: Let’s sing it right now!

YOU: And let’s do the same moves she did—let’s act like we’re in the shower, doing whaddyacallit to our hair.

OTHER PERSON: Shampooing it?

You: “Shampooing”! Yes! Oh, thank you!

OTHER PERSON: Say, do you ever find it sad that our memories are now made up of a few odd, insignificant bits stuck there like chewed-up gum to the underside of a classroom desk, and come to us unbidden and out of nowhere, but that if you try to remember something important, like how to do long division, you cannot?

YOU: Not at all! We should take pleasure in what comes to us while we are sitting there not remembering math. Like, Mike Nesmith’s mother invented Liquid Paper. Once I ate spaghetti and meatballs at my friend Anne Dumke’s house, and once I peed in the woods with my neighbor, Carl Walsh. Barbie’s nerdy date in the Barbie board game was named Poindexter. Terry Southern’s co-author on “Candy” was named Mason Hoffenberg. I could go on and on. ♦